One More Light
I have always loved music. Music is in me, a part of me. It soothes as nothing and no one else can; it makes me feel when I'm numb and calms my soul when it seems as though pain and hopelessness is all that is left in the world. I've gone through seasons of music, and while my favorites have evolved and changed and some songs may fall off the playlist as the years go by, all of the music played its part and I feel connected to those songs, as though they are old friends with whom I've been through the most important times with. Those friends always hold a place in your heart.
Sometime in my early teen years, I found a group of friends (the literal kind) and with them, my favorite bands. I was a 90's and 00's teen, so predictably, among my favorite musicians were (and for the most part still are) Creed, Eminem, Blue October, Bush, Linkin Park, Staind, Breaking Benjamin, and Stone Temple Pilots. A bit eclectic, but emotionally it was all the same. I was angry, and my music was angry. I was hurting, and my music understood that and validated that and wasn't judging anything. To steal a line from To Write Love On Her Arms, music was a safe place...and that is something immeasurably valuable to me.
Chester Bennington killed himself. If you don't know who that is, he was the lead singer of Linkin Park. Even if you're not a fan, you've heard the music and you'd recognize some of their popular songs. The entire Meteora album was my teenage soundtrack, and the loss of Chester, just as a fan, hit home for me. The man himself was funny and incredibly talented, but more than that, he was a human being. He was one of us. He had a family, and habits, and favorite things. He liked Chubby Hubby ice cream and loved people deeply.
I'm not going to pretend I knew him, because I never met him. The music he wrote and performed with Linkin Park was haunting, and raw, and real. He talked openly about his demons in interviews and interacted with fans and friends. He was a man. He wanted to know and to be known by others...just like the rest of us. His decision is a tragedy, and I'm finding that it's one that hit me harder than I thought it would.
I remember the first time I read the words written byJamie Tworkowski, the founder of To Write Love On Her Arms, a nonprofit that I am incredibly connected to and passionate about. The words that struck me so profoundly were "I don't know why I feel things so much more deeply than other people." It wasn't the point of the story, and it wasn't even the whole sentence, but for me, it was like an atomic bomb. I'd never heard it said aloud, or written down, or even acknowledged. I always knew I was different, but until then, I'd just assumed I was broken. From a young age, I was so deeply affected by the things around me. I remember crying when my Daddy didn't believe me about something trivial, and I dwelled on it. It hurt me, so, so deeply and my child's heart just wouldn't let it go. I thought about it for hours and hours and couldn't sleep that night.
I remember learning about the Titanic disaster and becoming practically obsessed with learning everything I could about it--not about the ship and the builders and the White Star Line, but about the people and the stories of JJ Astor and Captain Smith and the 3rd class passengers that were on that ship because they just wanted the chance of a better life. I was outraged, and deeply saddened by their loss, and completely frustrated by my inability to change anything. But all of this happened in 1912, and nobody really cared anymore, right? No one really wanted to listen, and I started to realize that other people didn't feel the way I did about the Titanic. Or about most things.
The Unabomber was active around the time I was a child as well, and I remember a similar phenomenon entering my mind then, but it wasn't until April 1995, 2 years after my dad died, that the world seemed to grieve with me for the first time. The Oklahoma City bombing killed 168 people and injured hundreds more. It was the pictures that stayed with me, though. The photo of the firefighter with a dusty, dirty, and limp child in his arms. The news covered it and the newspapers printed updates and stories, and I was there, probably the only 11 year old glued to the news and clipping newspaper articles. Even now, the adults were grieving, but my classmates and the people my age...it's not what 11 year olds talk about on the playground. I cried some nights, alone in my bed, thinking of that firefighter with that tiny, dirty, limp body in his arms. I followed Timothy McVeigh's trial and I can still remember the strange mix of relief and sadness when the verdict came and the front page read, "GUILTY".
There was OJ Simpson, and Jon Benet, and more. But then, when I was 17, there was 9/11. I'll never forget that day and the way I felt. I was broke, and I was underage, and I was too far away, but I wanted to help. I wanted to DO something. How does the sun even rise after something like that? And finally, the world started moving forward. Time marched on and people stopped talking about it. And there I was, stuck. I stayed there, entangled within the tragedy of 9/11 for a long time.
I could think of a hundred different times when, at some point, I felt as though life cut deeper in me than it seemed to with those around me. A hundred tragedies, big and small, from the homeless man to the suicide of a friend, to the overdose of a celebrity, and the ones that hit closer to my heart. Daddy, and Granddaddy, and Nana. Kenny's mom. Bobby's dad. Amanda.
Suicide. I can remember when it seemed as though that were an answer, a peace...an end to the pain and the tragedies and the confusing loss and hopelessness I felt so closely. I made a decision a long time ago that that wasn't an option for me, that it couldn't be, because of the people that loved me and the ones that I loved. And then there was To Write Love On Her Arms, and the stories and message there. Hope is real, help is real, your story is important. I hate the stigma that says we can't talk about depression, and suicide, and self-injury, and addiction. It seems that more and more musicians and actors and people of influence are saying now, "it's okay to talk about this stuff." More and more people are saying, "get help, it's okay, we're all in this together." One of those people was Chester Bennington. Yep, we've come full circle now.
Maybe this is why I find myself thinking so often about the decision he made to end his life. Chris Cornell from Soundgarden made the same decision, and it's no secret that Chester B and Chris Cornell were close friends. It's no secret (now) that Chester struggled deeply with the loss of his friend. And so this is the ending he chose to his story? It's so frustrating ... he writes "One More Light" and tells the world that every single person matters, but in the end...why?
I wish Chester Bennington knew that he was loved, not just by his fans, but by his friends, and his kids, and his wife. I wish he knew that he was a light among billions, and that he mattered anyway. I wish that he knew there was sunshine waiting on the other side of the storm. I wish he knew it was worth it--the pain, the tragedy, the hurt and all the things that happened--it's worth it to stay. Stay for the people who love you, who you haven't loved long enough yet. Stay for tomorrow. I wish he knew someone would have helped him, would have stayed with him, understood. I wish he knew that kids shouldn't have to grow up without their Daddy, that his wife shouldn't have to raise 6 kids alone. I wish he knew that the only person who thought he shouldn't stay was him.
Jamie Tworkowski writes that "community is a thing we must choose." So, to you, I say, choose community. Choose people...choose to stay. Above all else, please stay. It's worth it.
Sometime in my early teen years, I found a group of friends (the literal kind) and with them, my favorite bands. I was a 90's and 00's teen, so predictably, among my favorite musicians were (and for the most part still are) Creed, Eminem, Blue October, Bush, Linkin Park, Staind, Breaking Benjamin, and Stone Temple Pilots. A bit eclectic, but emotionally it was all the same. I was angry, and my music was angry. I was hurting, and my music understood that and validated that and wasn't judging anything. To steal a line from To Write Love On Her Arms, music was a safe place...and that is something immeasurably valuable to me.
Chester Bennington killed himself. If you don't know who that is, he was the lead singer of Linkin Park. Even if you're not a fan, you've heard the music and you'd recognize some of their popular songs. The entire Meteora album was my teenage soundtrack, and the loss of Chester, just as a fan, hit home for me. The man himself was funny and incredibly talented, but more than that, he was a human being. He was one of us. He had a family, and habits, and favorite things. He liked Chubby Hubby ice cream and loved people deeply.
I'm not going to pretend I knew him, because I never met him. The music he wrote and performed with Linkin Park was haunting, and raw, and real. He talked openly about his demons in interviews and interacted with fans and friends. He was a man. He wanted to know and to be known by others...just like the rest of us. His decision is a tragedy, and I'm finding that it's one that hit me harder than I thought it would.
I remember the first time I read the words written byJamie Tworkowski, the founder of To Write Love On Her Arms, a nonprofit that I am incredibly connected to and passionate about. The words that struck me so profoundly were "I don't know why I feel things so much more deeply than other people." It wasn't the point of the story, and it wasn't even the whole sentence, but for me, it was like an atomic bomb. I'd never heard it said aloud, or written down, or even acknowledged. I always knew I was different, but until then, I'd just assumed I was broken. From a young age, I was so deeply affected by the things around me. I remember crying when my Daddy didn't believe me about something trivial, and I dwelled on it. It hurt me, so, so deeply and my child's heart just wouldn't let it go. I thought about it for hours and hours and couldn't sleep that night.
I remember learning about the Titanic disaster and becoming practically obsessed with learning everything I could about it--not about the ship and the builders and the White Star Line, but about the people and the stories of JJ Astor and Captain Smith and the 3rd class passengers that were on that ship because they just wanted the chance of a better life. I was outraged, and deeply saddened by their loss, and completely frustrated by my inability to change anything. But all of this happened in 1912, and nobody really cared anymore, right? No one really wanted to listen, and I started to realize that other people didn't feel the way I did about the Titanic. Or about most things.
The Unabomber was active around the time I was a child as well, and I remember a similar phenomenon entering my mind then, but it wasn't until April 1995, 2 years after my dad died, that the world seemed to grieve with me for the first time. The Oklahoma City bombing killed 168 people and injured hundreds more. It was the pictures that stayed with me, though. The photo of the firefighter with a dusty, dirty, and limp child in his arms. The news covered it and the newspapers printed updates and stories, and I was there, probably the only 11 year old glued to the news and clipping newspaper articles. Even now, the adults were grieving, but my classmates and the people my age...it's not what 11 year olds talk about on the playground. I cried some nights, alone in my bed, thinking of that firefighter with that tiny, dirty, limp body in his arms. I followed Timothy McVeigh's trial and I can still remember the strange mix of relief and sadness when the verdict came and the front page read, "GUILTY".
There was OJ Simpson, and Jon Benet, and more. But then, when I was 17, there was 9/11. I'll never forget that day and the way I felt. I was broke, and I was underage, and I was too far away, but I wanted to help. I wanted to DO something. How does the sun even rise after something like that? And finally, the world started moving forward. Time marched on and people stopped talking about it. And there I was, stuck. I stayed there, entangled within the tragedy of 9/11 for a long time.
I could think of a hundred different times when, at some point, I felt as though life cut deeper in me than it seemed to with those around me. A hundred tragedies, big and small, from the homeless man to the suicide of a friend, to the overdose of a celebrity, and the ones that hit closer to my heart. Daddy, and Granddaddy, and Nana. Kenny's mom. Bobby's dad. Amanda.
Suicide. I can remember when it seemed as though that were an answer, a peace...an end to the pain and the tragedies and the confusing loss and hopelessness I felt so closely. I made a decision a long time ago that that wasn't an option for me, that it couldn't be, because of the people that loved me and the ones that I loved. And then there was To Write Love On Her Arms, and the stories and message there. Hope is real, help is real, your story is important. I hate the stigma that says we can't talk about depression, and suicide, and self-injury, and addiction. It seems that more and more musicians and actors and people of influence are saying now, "it's okay to talk about this stuff." More and more people are saying, "get help, it's okay, we're all in this together." One of those people was Chester Bennington. Yep, we've come full circle now.
Maybe this is why I find myself thinking so often about the decision he made to end his life. Chris Cornell from Soundgarden made the same decision, and it's no secret that Chester B and Chris Cornell were close friends. It's no secret (now) that Chester struggled deeply with the loss of his friend. And so this is the ending he chose to his story? It's so frustrating ... he writes "One More Light" and tells the world that every single person matters, but in the end...why?
I wish Chester Bennington knew that he was loved, not just by his fans, but by his friends, and his kids, and his wife. I wish he knew that he was a light among billions, and that he mattered anyway. I wish that he knew there was sunshine waiting on the other side of the storm. I wish he knew it was worth it--the pain, the tragedy, the hurt and all the things that happened--it's worth it to stay. Stay for the people who love you, who you haven't loved long enough yet. Stay for tomorrow. I wish he knew someone would have helped him, would have stayed with him, understood. I wish he knew that kids shouldn't have to grow up without their Daddy, that his wife shouldn't have to raise 6 kids alone. I wish he knew that the only person who thought he shouldn't stay was him.
Jamie Tworkowski writes that "community is a thing we must choose." So, to you, I say, choose community. Choose people...choose to stay. Above all else, please stay. It's worth it.
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